


Got Your Pack

by MapleleafCameo



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: AU, And Then He Doesn't, And Then He's Not, Death of a Squirrel, Eric thinks it's a cult, First Kiss, Fluff, Humour, Jack's a bit clueless, Jack's a bit grumpy, M/M, Magic Realism, Supernatural Elements, Were-Creatures, duh - Freeform, zimbits - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-06-09 03:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6887959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MapleleafCameo/pseuds/MapleleafCameo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hindsight, Eric should’ve figured it out sooner. The signs are all there. When he decides to go to Samwell, he assumes the ‘one in four; maybe more’ means something significantly different. At least it's not a cult. He hopes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Preconceived Notions Could Kill You Someday

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to mattsloved1 for looking this over:D
> 
> Thanks to the lovely and talented [Ngozi](http://ngoziu.tumblr.com) for her wonderful webcomic [Check Please!](http://omgcheckplease.tumblr.com)

In hindsight, Eric should’ve figured it out sooner.

The signs are all there.

He’s seen a lot of those kinds of movies, watched that show on TV once or twice.

When he decides to go to Samwell, he assumes the ‘one in four; maybe more’ means something significantly different.

Not that it matters in the end.

In the end, well…

)(

Everyone on campus is really nice. Everyone welcomes him, well, everyone who’s here. Not all the students have started yet, just the sports teams.

The hockey team is a great bunch if a little rough around the edges. Most are hospitable and interested in making friends. All of them look to their captain, Jack Zimmermann, with a particular fondness, respect, and attentiveness. Eric is a little intimidated by him, and he seems a bit cold and distant, but he figures once he gets to know Jack, it will be different.

Eric settles in, unpacks and follows the rest of the newbies, affectionately known as the frogs, around on the house tour. He’s excited about the prospect of having a kitchen to cook in, even though it’s beyond disgusting.

The tour winds up with Shitty gathering them all around and giving them one finally piece of advice.

“Frogs listen to my words and hear the wisdom I am about to lay down. You are joining a team, a throwback, promoting the outdated, yet still practiced domination of the social position of men. I am here to tell you, that in spite of actively participating in a male-oriented sport, you can do better. You can work with the team to be better, faster, stronger, to break the perception that we are just a bunch of dude bros. You can surpass the expectation put upon you by the so-called natural order and gender role expectations produced by our society. We are told to follow a set pattern determined by an older generation; we are told to follow our leader, our Captain, our Jack and on the ice we will do so, but there are always stipulations. Expect the unexpected. Even though this is a male sports team, we can work on the perception of heteronormativity. We will be victorious. Our way is better! Oh and two more things. Stay away from the Lacrosse team. They suck and not in a good way! And don’t go out at night alone.”

Eric frowns. “I thought the campus was safe?”

Shitty winks at him. “It is, just, well there’s a certain rivalry between some of the teams. It can get out of hand now and then.”

Eric isn’t sure what Shitty is getting at exactly; he just hopes he hasn’t inadvertently joined a cult.

)(

The first time Eric thinks there’s something strange about Jack happens at first practice. Out on the ice, they begin warm up drills. Things go pretty well considering it’s been a few months since he’s played hockey and, although, in good shape, he still feels a bit winded. He smiles and high-fives one of his new teammates, Holtz or Rans; he still gets them confused. A feeling of joy at being back on the ice fills him completely, and he needs to express that in a very Eric Bittle way. So toward the end of their ice time, he picks up some speed and jumps a small, safe single. He lands it flawlessly. There’s a smattering of clapping and as he swishes past Jack…

He stops and looks back over his shoulder, frowning. Shitty comes up behind him claps him on the shoulder and smiles.

“What’s up Bitty Bits?”

“Did he, um, did he just growl at me?”

Shitty glances at Jack, Jack, who’s staring at Bittle, icy blue eyes creasing, nostrils flared.

Shitty laughs, a real laugh, perhaps a tad forced. “Course not! Well, mebbe. Jacky boy gets a little territorial on the ice. Part of his fucking charm. In the masculine world of National Hockey men are manly men so the jump may have startled him a little. There’s a proving ground out there and a little growling over ice time is perfectly normal. Not that that is an excuse. You jump all you want. I’ll, uh, I’ll speak to him.”

Shitty skates back to where Jack’s still staring at Eric and although he can’t hear what’s says, he can see Shitty speak quite earnestly to Jack with lots of hand gestures and flow.

)(

The first time Eric’s checked, he lays on the ice while Coach Murray and Jack bend over him. He remembers hearing Jack’s call of “Bittle, heads up!” Holtz comes out of nowhere, brushes his shoulder, Eric panics and falls over. After he gets sent to sit on the benches, Shitty skates over and tells him not to worry his Bitty little head about it.

The time after that, when it happens again, Jack yells at Eric and well…

“I thought y’all said he didn’t usually growl.”

“Seems it’s becoming a bit of a habit for Jack. I’ll have another chat with him.”

“What about the snapping.”

“Snapping?”

“Yeah, he snapped his teeth at me. Like he wanted to bite.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. No. That’s new.” And Shitty gets up off the bench and has another word with Jack.

)(

After that things settled down. To Eric’s surprise, it’s Jack who helps him with checking practice. Shortly after, he gets his first assist and does his first kegster.

“Hey, where all is Jack? Doesn’t he live here?”

“Eeeeeh, doesn’t really do Haus parties,” says Ransom.

“Oh yeah,” says Holster, “particular if it lines up with…you know what, never mind.”

Eric doesn’t think too much about what Holster didn’t say. He’s too busy balancing on the keg.

Later, the frogs make their way back to the dorms, helped out by Ransom and Eric thinks about how pretty the night is, a frost sparked halo around the full moon. It shines down, illuminating the sidewalk, creating a feeling of magic. The air holds that autumn touch to it, the taste of a dying year and the promise of jack-o-lanterns and ghosts. He shivers a bit.

In the distance, he can hear the traffic, quieter at this time of the morning but still ever present. He shivers again when he hears wild music ringing around the campus, far away but not that far.

“Y’all have coyotes around here?”

“What? Coyotes, well, hmm, maybe.” Ransom appears thoughtful. “But they don’t come around much. Probably driven to live in the city because of loss of habitat. Don’t worry about it, Bitty. I’ll protect you.”

Eric laughs. “Why thank you. That’s very gentlemanly of you. And thanks for seeing us back to the dorm, Sir Justin.”

“Least I can do, eh? Not always a good idea to wander around the campus after one of these Haus parties, especially if you’ve been drinking.”

“But what about you? Didn’t you have a lot to drink?”

“Um, no, when we have new frogs we take turns making sure they get back safely. You know, because of all the drinking and stuff. Just, um, just don’t go out some nights, by yourself. I’m sure Shitty told you.”

“Oh,” he says, but there’s something underneath Ransom’s words, a hint of a warning, a suggestion of the woods and the dark.

)(

Eventually, Jack seems to loosen up a whole lot around him. He becomes friendlier, especially after he sees how well they work together on the ice.

Eric walks in on Shitty and Jack in the middle of a conversation. It takes him several seconds to realize it’s about him.

“I don’t think we should tell him yet.”

“Dude, do you see how fucking fantastic the two of you are, the way you move together on the ice? It’s like kismet or some fucking soul mate shit. You are always hyper-aware of each other and when he sends the puck your way…” Shitty stops when he sees it's Eric, smiles a bit awkwardly and finishes lacing up.

And Jack, well, Jack looks at Eric as if he’s seeing him for the first time. Ever since they had checking practice things are better. There was some strain when Eric got the winning goal in the game when Jack’s dad was there, but now it’s all good. Jack smiles at him, talks to him about things other than hockey and it’s more friendly.

They end up going for morning runs together and the occasional trip to get lattes.

The thing is, in spite of some of Jack’s oddities and difficulty expressing himself, Eric feels more comfortable with him than he does with a lot of people. He tries not to because it will just lead to misery, but knows he could fall hard for Jack.

With Jack smiling more, being friendlier, he is put to the test, but he does his best to keep the magic of their relationship on the ice.

)(

There’s this one night just after Christmas break Eric is crossing the campus, having spent some time at the library trying to make at least a small attempt at studying.

The snow crunches under his feet and the cold crinkles in his nose. He misses, misses dreadfully the much warmer and milder winters of Georgia, but there is also something incredibly invigorating about the cold. He stops and takes a deep breath throwing out his arms and filling his lungs.

Continuing his walk, he hears a noise behind him. He looks over his shoulder, peering into the shadows between buildings. Coming behind him is a smallish crowd of students, rowdy and possibly drunk. There’s confident playfulness in the way they strut the pathways, a rollicking mob of healthy young people. He shrugs and continues, but they come up behind him rather quickly. One of them grabs his arm. They are definitely intoxicated. They are definitely members of the Lacrosse team and their followers.

“Hey, you’re that hockey dude. The little one. You know Zimmermann.” It’s not a question, and not said in a particularly pleasant tone.

Eric doesn’t say anything just carefully removes the hand from his arm.

“Whoa, chill, no harm, just hey, do you think you could give him a message?”

“What kind of a message?”

The Lacrosse bro steps closer and Eric steps back, a little unnerved. There’s a smile on the guy’s face, not a very nice one. He moves in, and Eric swears he sniffs the air around him.

“Tell him the meeting’s moved up. Tell him to bring the two initiates. We will discuss terms.”

“Um, no, I don’t think so. You need to tell him that yourself.” Eric starts to move away when the hand returns to his arm. His stomach flips a bit, and he tries not to think about the familiar feeling of dread settling in it. His heart beats faster.

“I don’t think you heard me, little boy. We want you to deliver a message to Zimmermann.”

“Yeah, I heard you. Y’all’ve got the wrong guy.”

The hand clenches a bit harder, almost but not quite bruising. Eric opens his mouth to yell when there is a low growl coming from behind the group. It would have been comical if not so serious to see every one of them, Eric included, look in the direction of the noise.

Standing in the shadows of the closest building is the biggest, shaggiest dog Eric has ever seen. The saliva in his mouth dries up with fear and sweat pools in his ‘pits. The dog takes a step closer and growls again. The Lacrosse dude drops Eric’s arm as if it’s hot, puts his hands up and says, “Relax. We just wanted him to deliver a message.”

The dog takes another step forward, its hackles rising. The group mutters and leaves, flowing around Eric as if he were a rock in a river. He stands there, his heart beating so hard he thinks it will fly out of his chest. That would make a nice meal for the dog.

Hackles drop, and it sits. Eric swears he can hear its tail sweeping the snow behind him.

“Good boy,” he says, barely vocal.

The dog tilts its head, its tongue now hanging out as it pants, almost friendly, a little bit goofy, except for the gleam of sharp white teeth. It woofs, almost as quietly as Eric and leaves, trotting in the opposite direction, although it stops once and looks over its shoulder at him, ears perked.

Eric turns and walks back to the dorms as fast as he can, but not running, never run, vowing to never, not ever leave again.

He shakes, sitting on his bed and it takes him forever to fall asleep. When he does, he dreams of a large dog but with Jack’s icy blue eyes.

The next day he approaches Jack at breakfast and tries several times to give him the message.

“You okay?” Jack asks. “You look like you had a rough night.” Jack pats him awkwardly on the arm. Eric looks into Jack’s eyes. He’s reminded how he’s always thought of them as wolf eyes, but at least, this time, there seems to be a hint of warmth in them, a friendliness that isn’t always there.

He tells Jack about the encounter the night before. Jack asks a few questions, looks distant for a moment and then smiles at Eric. “I’m sorry that happened, Bittle. Please don’t go out at night alone again. Especially now they, um, know you.”

“Sh-shouldn’t I report it or something?”

“No. Actually thanks to you and what happened we should be able to get some concessions from them.” He pats Eric again and smiles. Eric watches him sit beside Shitty, and there’s a quiet, intense conversation between them. Shitty looks at Eric once or twice and smiles.

Eric really hopes he hasn’t joined a cult.

)(

In the spring, when he meets Lardo, she isn’t what he expected, at all. All the stories he’s heard lead him to create an image of her as a six-foot white dude. But she’s not, and although she is short, she’s feisty and tough. Everyone listens to her. Everyone.

Even the Lacrosse dudes.

Eric asks her a few questions about Kenya. She answers them, but they are the same sort of pat, routine answers most of the team get.

Spending the night after a kegster, sleeping in Johnson’s room, because he said, “Dude, you’d better get use to it,” he accidentally overhears Lardo and Shitty out on the roof.

“Was it what you thought it would be?”

“It was so much more. Worth it. It is totally worth all of the blood, sweat and tears. Who knew there’s so many of us?”

Instinctively, Eric clutches Señor Bun a little tighter when they laugh, a low, growly sort of sound.

)(

After a particularly good game on the road, they stop to eat dinner and to celebrate, somewhere not upscale but a lot nicer than usual.

Jack points to an item on the menu. “I’m going to splurge a little, I don’t usually do this, but I’ll have the steak please, ten ounces and very rare if you don’t mind.”

“Very rare,” the waiter repeats, writing down his order.

“Yeah, like, just kiss the grill rare, thanks.”

Shitty leans in, “you okay, man?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, but I need a little…” he notices Bitty looking at him. “What are you getting, Bittle?” he asks not unkindly but with a tone to his voice as if he’s saying you need to mind your business and let’s change the subject.

“Um, I’ll have the chicken breast and rice please.” He closes his menu and tries to ignore Jack.

Shitty and Lardo decide to order the same as Jack, but Rans and Holts stick with chicken like Eric.

The conversation over dinner swirls around him, and he hardly touches his chicken, not hungry.

After, when they’re all back on the bus, Jack chooses to sit beside Eric.

“You didn’t eat much. You feeling okay.”

Eric picks at the weather stripping around the window of the bus. “Yeah, I guess.”

“You’ve gotta keep up your strength, Bittle. You know what I keep telling you about protein.”

“Yeah, I know.” He picks some more. Then he turns to Jack. “If there were something wrong, you’d say wouldn’t you?”

Jack’s eyes light on Eric’s face, searching. He shivers under the intensity of his stare. “Why? What do you think is wrong?”

“Oh I don’t know, but sometimes it feels like there’s an entire conversation going on around me. Like I’m missing something big. So I thought if there’s something I should know like if you’re okay, you’d say.”

There’s nothing coming out of Jack except silence. Eric glances over and sees Jack isn’t looking at him. He’s looking down at his hands, which he’s clenching into fists.

“Jack? You're scaring me a little, getting me thinking there is something wrong.”

“Bittle, I can’t, not yet.”

“You ain’t dying or something, are you?” Eric laughs nervously, not sure he’s ready to hear the answer.

Jack slowly shakes his head and loosens his fists. “No, not dying.” He still won’t look at Eric, but studies the floor like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever seen.

“Okay.”

“Bittle, you’ll find out, just, don’t ask, okay? Not yet. It’s not my place.”

“Okay.” He turns back to stare out the window and tries hard not to feel left out.

)(

There are some things he appreciates about this group of people he hangs with, this team.

After a particularly grueling midterm, positive he’s failed, he slumps into the Haus, sits on the green couch, too despondent to care if he gets influenza or the plague from it.

Shitty and Holster see him sitting there, look at one another and Shitty yells, “Puppy pile!” They tackle him, and there’s a tickle fight of sorts and possibly licking, but not in an inappropriate way.

He’s lying on the floor giggling when Jack walks in.

“Uh, what’s going on?”

“Get down here, you beautiful mother fucker! Bits needs hugs!”

Jack laughs, actually laughs and climbs over the back of the couch. He snuggles up to the three of them, and it’s pleasant, weird as fuck, but Eric finally feels like he belongs.

Even if it is a cult.

)(

He doesn’t remember much about getting checked. Flying through the air, which feels graceful but isn’t, looks bad and is much, much worse. As he hits the ice and he fades out, he’s sure he hears screams and a definite crack. The ice under his head turns warm and then cold again, and he can’t open his eyes, even after Coach Murray calls his name, even after Jack’s panicked voice, even after there is nothing. It’s dark and still, incredibly lonely, but there is absolutely…nothing…for the longest time.

And then there is unbelievable pain, but not just in his head, it’s in his wrist and his leg and part of him misses the nothing but a bigger part of him is so grateful to be feeling something.

He is so cold, but it’s better to be cold, and then he’s feverish, he can’t stop shaking. He’s trying to get someone to listen, and he knows he’s yelling. Gradually the pain starts to recede, and someone is there. Someone is always there. He wonders at first if it’s Mama if she flew up to see him, because the someone is holding him, rocking him and wiping his brow and saying, ‘hush, it will be okay, I’ve got you’ but the voice is too deep, and the arms are too strong.

Finally, finally, finally, it stops.

All of it.

Just stops.

It is quiet, but not the dark and scary quiet, not the loneliness of before.

He takes a deep breath and then another.

He is warm and safe and lying in bed, but not his bed. He’s certain of that. His eyes feel sticky and seem to be too hard and heavy to lift. But his ears are working just fine.

There is someone else in the room. He can hear the person quite well; little rustles of cloth against cloth, the scratch of pen against paper, a sniff now and then, throat clearing. Then he can smell grapefruit shampoo, the not totally unpleasant scent of body odor. It smells more interesting than he would normally think and underneath it is the almost too sweet and rather pungent scent of weed.

Brows furrow as he connects the dots. Female. Lardo.

His sense of smell is very strong, maybe because he’s been asleep for so long because now he can smell the detergent in the sheets. The window must be open and the scents coming in on the evening breeze are exciting and intoxicating. He’s never smelt lilac and green grass so strongly before. They smell like food tastes.

Lardo gets up from her chair when there’s a quiet knock at the door. It’s Jack. Eric can tell about a millisecond before Lardo opens the door. There are soft words spoken in hushed tones, but Eric can just make them out.

“How is he?”

“He’s still sleeping, I think. He’s very quiet, getting rest. He needs it, after, well, after that. Are you okay to be here?”

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“Did you…?”

“Shitty and I took care of it.”

“Jack…”

“No one saw us.”

“You didn’t…”

“Nah. Just scared him a little. What? You know we don’t do that.”

“Are you good to be here?” she repeats.

“Course.”

“Okay. Look, I can stay longer if you want.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Eric starts to drift off.

“No, I’ll stay. He’ll be waking up soon, and it should be me that tells him.”

“Not really.”

“Please. Let me. I made the choice for him.”

There’s more whispering, but Eric can’t make it out. He falls into a light doze. He wakes again when the door closes. Turning over, he sees Jack sitting in the chair at the desk.

“Hey, Bitty, how are you feeling? Sorry if I woke you.”

“M’okay, I guess. My head hurts.”

Jack gets up and helps Eric into a semi-sitting position, with the pillows behind his head. He then hands him a glass of water. “It’s going to hurt for a bit longer, I’m afraid.”

The water feels good to his parched throat like he’s never had water before. He swears he could almost identify the different minerals in it. Once he’s drained the glass, he hands it back to Jack and looks at him. Jack smiles, but it’s tentative and uncertain, there’s something hovering on the edge of it

“I’m sorry, Bittle. I, uh, well, I, you shouldn’t have been hurt.”

“Jack…”

“No, listen, I told you I had your back. If I hadn’t have been so fucking concerned about getting a goal, I…”

“Jack, shut up.”

“What?”

“I have a concussion and a headache, and it’s not your fault. It woulda happened sooner or later anyway, so just…let it go.”

“Bittle, you don’t understand. I’m really bad at this.” He takes a deep breath and tries again. “Bittle, there was more than a concussion.”

Eric squints at him. His headache has receded a bit, but it’s still there like a thunderstorm waiting to break. “What do you mean?”

Jack looks at his hands. “Bittle,” he says again, but so very soft. “Bittle, Eric, you, um, you hit your head really hard, and when you fell, um, you opened up your skull. You also had a sprained wrist and a broken leg, but the head wound was severe. There was so much blood. We couldn’t stop the bleeding. We, we lost you for almost ten minutes.”

Eric blinks at him; there’s a faint buzzing nose in his ears. He blinks again, “But that’s not possible.”

Jack looks up at him, and Eric sees it, in his eyes, sees his death out on the ice, sees what it did to everyone on the team, sees the horror of his life slipping away with his blood.

He remembers the dark and the loneliness; he remembers the cold.

“I think I’m gonna to be sick.” Jack moves swiftly, so edge blurring fast, the trashcan from beside the desk is under his mouth just as the water he drank comes up. He heaves again and again until there’s nothing left in his stomach and only a bit of yellow bile is spit out.

Eric lies back, weakened, his head pounding. He stares at the ceiling, blinking back tears as he wonders why he isn’t in a hospital and whether his parents know.

“We, um, brought you off the ice. We pretended you were just hurt and unconscious. The team doctor knows, has to know. So we brought you into the locker room and, well, I, made the decision.” Eric can see Jack is worrying at the seam of his jeans, not looking at Eric.

“We would’ve offered it to you, next year, but not yet, we don’t do it the first year. We would have told you before the end of this year, see if you wanted it and then at the end of your sophomore year you could choose. Rans and Holster are both going to do it.”

“I don’t understand.”

There is silence between them, heavy, weighted, silence. Jack clears his throat. “I’m sorry, I’ve never been good at this part. You’re the first person I’ve had to explain it to. Do you know much about werewolves?”

And he said it, the thing that has been hanging there, between the hockey and the studying and the baking and the friendship, this thing, an unnamable fright that crawls up out of the darkest part of Eric’s nightmares. The connections have been there, all the time. The little niggling things he had noticed, seemed to light a path in his brain. His stomach drops, but he doesn’t think he’ll be sick again. “Oh,” he says, and Eric knew, had always known, but had chosen to not quite believe it, for believing it made it real. If there were werewolves what other monsters might be out there?

“So we had to change you. Without your permission. Without asking you, because Bitty, I couldn’t,” And Eric is surprised because he thinks Jack might be crying. “I couldn’t leave you there, lying on the stretcher.” Jack has his arms wrapped around himself, hugging tight, trying to keep it all in. “You died, Bitty, and you were so small and so cold, and I couldn’t leave you there. I am so sorry.”

Eric doesn’t say anything for a long time. He sits up a bit more and stares without seeing out the window. Birds flit by, and clouds scuttle across the sky. The light changes and deepens toward late afternoon. The shadows of the tree behind the Haus move and creep over the lawn.

“It’s a lot to take in.”

“I know.”

Again, he doesn’t say anything, but then, “So what happens now?”

Jack looks a bit better, a bit more like here is something he can talk about.

“Well, um, we need you to come stay with one of us, until you can get used to it, the changes. It isn’t fun at first, but it gets easier. I spent last year up North with Shitty, learning things. My family has a cabin. We were lucky, I guess.”

Eric’s breath hitches, just a bit. “I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“Oh! Oh no! It’s not like that! Oh god! No, _Crisse_ , it’s not like the movies, Bitty. There are rules, and there are different packs, but, no, we don’t eat people or anything.” Eric looks at Jack’s face, and he looks green at the thought of what Eric is suggesting. “This is why we tell you beforehand. No, we, our hockey team, we are Pack. The Lacrosse team is another, the swim team may or may not be otters, no one wants to ask, but we don’t fight or anything, we have rules as to how many can be changed. We actually will have to pay fines for you. It was totally unauthorized, but not without precedence.”

“But what about all the stuff about not going out at night and being careful and stuff.” Eric knows he is not very eloquent at his moment.

“Oh, that, well, some of the Pack thinks it’s funny to be all mysterious, I mean, yeah, there’s a slight danger someone could get accidently turned, but it’s more of a friendly rivalry. They’d be more likely to paint you blue.”

“Jack?”

“What?”

“Thanks.”

“But…”

“No, I mean, I’m still scared, and I still don’t understand. I think this will all hit me about three in the morning, and I’ll have a massive panic attack, but thanks.”

“I’ll be here, Bittle. I’ll always be here for you. We’re Pack.”

Eric giggled a bit hysterically because it’s more got your pack than got you back, but it’s the same thing. “Okay. I’m going to sleep now.”

Throughout the night, there’s always someone to check on him. In the morning, with the sun shining in through his window and the birds calling out to one another, Eric wakes with the sensation of someone sniffing his head. He blinks a few times, yawns and rolls over. Jack is curled up next to him, a goofy grin on his face, a grin reminiscent of a big shaggy dog on a winter’s night. He’s so happy to see Eric awake and warm and alive.

“Did you just sniff me?”

“Umm, well, no, I mean, maybe? I, uh, I thought there was blood and I…”

“I don’t want to know. We’re gonna pretend that didn’t happen.”

“Okay.”

“At least until I get used to this.”

“Of course.”

“And then we’ll talk about maybe sniffing each other.”

Jack smiles, helps him sit up and get back on his feet but thankfully doesn’t follow him into the bathroom.

)(

So things kind of stay the same and things change enormously. He convinces his parents he gets work up in Québec at an outdoor camp. They think he’s learning French, and if his Mama gets a knowing look in her eye, he doesn’t say anything else about it because it’s so different from what she suspects to be true. Well, not completely, because that fundamental fact about himself remains, there’s just so much more to it.

Ransom and Holster join him and Shitty, Jack and Lardo. It’s important to spend time together, to work as a team, to strengthen the bonds.

And the thing that surprises him the most is it turns out Jack isn’t the alpha.

He finds out the first day they let him out of bed. He comes downstairs, and Lardo and Shitty are in the kitchen. He smiles, shyly at them, a feeling of awkwardness, but a sense of belonging, mingled together. Shitty comes over, picks him up and squeezes him.

“Bitty, you little fucker, welcome to the family.” And he licks Eric’s ear.

“Okay, I’m gonna have to get used to that.” Shitty just laughs.

“Put him down, moron.” Shitty puts him carefully back on the ground and looks at Lardo, a pleased expression on his face.

“Yes, you did well, now fetch Eric some breakfast, he’s starving.”

Eric swears if Shitty’s tail could make an appearance he’d be wagging it.

“I can get my breakfast,” he says, a trace of dubiousness in his voice at the thought of Shitty cooking breakfast.

“Nah, you’ll be low mutt in the pecking order for a bit, Bits. Let him spoil you while you’re still healing.” Lardo winks at him and ruffles his hair. A feeling of intense pleasure flows through him like he just did his first double axel and got a perfect score from the Russian judge.

Then it clicks. “Wait, you? You’re the alpha?”

She smiles at him and sets down her coffee.

“What did I tell you, Bitty, at the beginning of the year.” Shitty puts a plate of sausages and eggs in front of him. He is so hungry. “Loosen your preconceived notions of male dominated society, brah.”

Eric laughs and eats his most excellent breakfast.


	2. Some Werewolves Are Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been over a year! All I had for this chapter all of this time was Bitty trotting down the sidewalk with Jack on his run and getting stopped by a child asking Jack to pet his dog:P  
> Sorry it's taken me so long, but it finally gelled - although even that took about two weeks.  
> Thanks again to mattsloved1 for looking at this.

Ever since they came back from summer break in Northern Québec.

 

Every single fucking time.

 

Out for a quiet morning jog, friend keeping pace beside him.

 

And someone insults one of the fiercest predators known to man. Well, maybe not known, not really, ‘cause then they’d probably be hunted and killed.

 

But fierce! Definitely!

 

“Hey mister, can I pet your dog?”

 

Jack stops. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, but he also smiles and crouches down to address the boy standing near the sidewalk. He smiles kindly because Jack is nothing if not kind to small children. “Sure, just hold out your hand and let him sniff you. He’s a good boy, aren’t you, Bittle?” His hand scratches at the spot between Bittle’s ears.

 

Because he can.

 

Bittle whines a bit, but sits, his tail swishes the ground, and his tongue hangs out of his mouth, in what looks a bit like a grin. The little boy comes closer and holds out his hand. Bittle sniffs it, licks it and then the little boy’s face. The child laughs and pushes him away, and hC grins again, his happy canine grin, tongue lolling, beaming up at Jack as only he can in any form.

 

“What kind of a dog is he?” asks the boy’s mother, also holding out her hand.

 

“Um, he’s kind of, sort of, well…”

 

“He looks like a corgi. Is he a Corgi?”

 

“He’s not a Corgi.” He really can’t tell her the truth, not that she’d believe him. He looks nothing like a Corgi. Seriously. Where do these people get their information?

 

Just because he’s small and has yellow fur.

 

But he’s nicely proportioned, thank you very much. No stubby legs on this boy.

 

“Thank you. Come on, Timmy. Let the man finish walking his dog. Say goodbye to the nice doggy.”

 

“Bye!” Timmy waves back at them, more at Bittle than Jack.

And he’s not a dog. Fortunately, the lady is far enough away, or she’d have heard him growl.

 

“Come on, Bittle. Let’s get you home.” The whining Jack ignores in favour of putting in his ear buds and continues his jog.

 

After they reach the house, Jack opens the door to let them in. Bittle wipes his paws on the doormat and death stares Jack until he wipes his feet as well.

 

“Are you okay to change alone?” Bittle’s been having a bit of trouble, mostly because it’s still new and sometimes he gets stuck.

 

Bittle nods and kind of sneezes at the same time, paws at his nose and then nods again. He yips once and trots upstairs to change.

 

Shitty glances up from where he lies on the couch of pestilence. One look at Jack’s face, he leaps over the back and hugs him, pulls him into a noogie.

 

“Stop.”

 

“Brah, what’s the matter? You look like your favourite fucking Canadian icon just jumped ship and became Americanized.” Jack’s gaze follows the absent Bittle.

 

“It’s nothing.”

 

“Fuck that. I see where this is going. It’s Bits, isn't it?”

 

“No, yeah, maybe.” He tells Shitty about the mom and son they’d run into.

 

Shitty does not see what the problem is.

 

‘They always think he’s a Corgi.”

 

“So.”

 

“But he’s not.”

 

“And what are you going to do? Say ‘oh no ma’am, he’s not a corgi, he’s one of God’s almightiest creatures’ and watch her scoop up her kid and run for the hills? Brah. Braski. Jackabelle. Are you ashamed of our Bitty?”

 

“No! God no. Crisse, I don't know how to explain it. It’s just…I feel…” Jack waves his hands up and down as his brain stutters to a halt.

 

“Deep breaths. In and out. First word. When you think of Bitty, the wonder corgi you say…”

 

“Insulted,” says his mouth.

 

“Okay, not where I thought this was going. Why insulted?”

 

Jack looks at him like he simply can’t believe Shitty has to ask.

 

“He’s a werewolf! Not a dog!”

 

“Yeah, brah, I know, but why are you upset?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m worried. He’s already got so many things going against him. What are the other packs going to say? What are the Lax bros going to say? They are going to I don't know do shit to him. I just put another fucking target on his back.”

 

There’s a weird tightness in his chest, making it hard to breathe. His stomach also flips a bit. He gets this now and then when he thinks about Bittle too much, about him getting hurt or picked on. He thinks he might need to see a doctor or something.

 

Maybe he’s getting an ulcer.

 

“I’m going to go study.” Turning away from Shitty, he trudges up the stairs. When he reaches his bedroom, he slams the door behind him and sits on his bed, head in hands.

 

A few minutes later there’s a knock. “Go away Shitty. I’m not interested.”

 

“It's not Shitty.” Of course, it isn’t. Shitty wouldn't knock.

 

Jack opens the door, and Lardo lopes in. She sits on his bed and pats it. Jack slinks back and sits beside her. She wraps her arms around him, sniffs his head and then gently nips his ear.

 

“Ow! What’s that for?”

 

“You know.”

 

Jack grumbles a bit and abashed, nods.

 

“Bitty will be okay. He’s not ashamed. Some werewolves are small.”

 

“I’m not ashamed. I’m…I’m concerned.”

 

“Yes but you act like you’re ashamed of him.”

 

Jack slumps more into Lardo. He can’t explain it.

 

“We really should have let me change him, you know. I’m more use to it. You are a big old mother hen.” She ruffles his hair, kisses his cheek and lets herself out. Pausing at the doorway, she says. “Go talk to him.” She shuts the door.

 

He groans and throws himself back on the bed. Now he’ll have to.

 

“Alphas,” he mutters.

 

)(

 

An hour or so later, the compulsion to talk to Bittle seeps under his skin and makes him twitchy. Down to the kitchen he goes, where the light is always, always golden and warm and inviting when a certain someone is in there, cooking.

 

And cooking he is. There are at least three pots going on the stove and two trays of something in the oven, cooling racks everywhere with stuff, you know, cooling and a bowl heaping with potato salad.

 

And Bitty, _Bittle_ , dances to something catchy and upbeat, probably the Beyoncé person, hips swing, butt bootying, little jumps and sidesteps and who knows what.

 

Jack stands, just stands, hands clench and unclench, mouth dry, stands and looks at the lithe and supple figure bopping around the kitchen. Sweeping his gaze over, taking in the soft down of short, fine blonde hair on the back of the neck, a faint line of pale white skin peeking out, the fresh cut of his hair darker gold where it hid from the sun. Layers of tan lines graduated in colour depending on the length of the shorts he’s been wearing lately, and the same pale white skin flirts with him when Bitty moves from the edge of those ridiculous shorts. Legs impossibly long for his height. Bittle is all legs, firm and muscular, in proportion. Perfect, perfect proportion. No damn corgi in him at all.

 

Jack can’t express to anyone, least of all to Bittle, the feeling of pride that’s making his heart race when he watches him. He knows he’s worked hard to adapt to being a werewolf, as hard as he worked to play hockey and overcome his checking phobia. He should really tell him, let him know that when he watches Bittle transform, even when he screams, even when it hurt so much, that he feels it too, wants to take it away from him and make it easier. Make it his. Wants to pet him and groom him and lick his face all the time. Take care of him. Strangely an image of a den in the woods with a litter of pups kind of meanders into his mind.

 

Instead of discussing his weird mix of unspecified emotions, he says, “Uh, Bittle?”

 

Bitty jerks to a stop, pulls out his earbuds. “Oh goodness, Jack, you scared me. You’d think you’d make more noise, big hulking thing like you. And I can't smell you with all this food cooking. Do you know how much food I have to cook now? Come on in. Don't be shy. I’ve fresh chocolate cookies. It’s a new recipe with marshmallows in the center. I’ve also got some stew on the go and a pie or two. There’s steak marinating for dinner, and I made potato salad. Do you find you get starving after a change? I do.”

 

Jack comes in and sits and watches while Bitty grabs a plate, plunks four cookies down and pours a large glass of milk. Jack doesn't say anything. He just basks in the sunlight emanating from the smallest werewolf of the Haus pack. He chews on the cookie, moving it around in his mouth the way he moves the words in his head.

 

He’s about to open his mouth again, to tell him…something when the front door bangs and Rans and Holster burst into the kitchen.

 

“Food!”

 

Giving their best impression of a horde of locusts, they gobble down cookies. The oven dings and the pies are ready, and two sets of grabby hands reach for them.

 

Bitty slaps at them, saying, “They have to cool first!” He places the pies on the window. “Now Jack, how about some more milk?”

 

But in all the kerfuffle, Jack slips away and goes back to his room.

 

Later, later with his stomach rumbling and his nerves seething, there comes another knock on the door.

 

He knows it’s not Lardo this time and it’s not Shitty.

 

“Come in,” he says to the ceiling, resignation settles inside.

 

“Jack?”

 

He stifles a groan. Bittle brings him a plate of food.

 

“Jack, I made you dinner. I thought you might be hungry.” Standing there, at the end of his bed, big eyes dark and deep, looking at him with trust.

 

“Uh, yeah, thanks, would you like to sit down?”

 

Bitty scoots into the room and perches on the chair at Jack’s desk. He starts chattering away, like a jay, hardly pausing to breathe as he tells Jack about his day, the classes he’s taking, when Jack thinks his ability to transform will smooth out, will it be safe for him to go home by Christmas and will his parents even notice there’s a difference. And as he’s about to launch into another topic, Jack, who has been enjoying the plate of food Bitty brought up far more than he thought he should have, starts saying, “Bittle,” about every ten seconds or so, until finally Bitty stops and says,”

 

“Lord Jack, I’m so sorry. I’ve just been running off at the mouth…”

 

“Bittle!”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Bittle, are you, do you, you, are you, can I…?”

 

“Jack?” He scrambles off of the chair and kneels down on the floor, grabs Jacks hand and looks up at him with those big, chocolate pie eyes. The position and the expression are making Jack’s heart gallop and lurch. He can barely swallow the mouthful in his mouth. He really should drink some water.

 

“I feel...”

 

“What?”

 

Mouth opens and closes in a passable imitation of a trout, he says, “Full.”

 

“Too full for some peach cobbler fresh out of the oven? I even have some frozen raspberry yogurt to go with it.”

 

Something about Bittle’s pleading eyes can’t be ignored. He’d sooner kick a puppy than say no to a dessert offered on bent knees by this boy sitting at his feet.

 

“Uh, sure. I’ll be down in a minute.”

 

Bittle stands, takes the plate and practically skips out of the room.

 

 

“That went well,” Jack says to no one in particular.

 

)(

 

Days pass, nights, too. Jack’s still confused about what he wants to say to Bittle. Still gets annoyed by well-meaning people who just want to pet his dog.

 

Roaming the nearby copse with the pack, studying in the kitchen or pretending to, while he watches Bittle move with grace from counter to stove to sink. Going to morning practice or over to Annie’s after for coffee, the words stay stuck in Jack’s head. They kind of float there, like a bunch of logs and other debris on a river. When they reach his mouth, there’s so many of them, so many words they’re stuck there, crammed against one another, too many of them.

 

He listens, in quiet contemplation, while he chatters away, filling Jack’s silences. Funnily, even though the logs are still jostling against one another, Jack finds the river quiet, he doesn’t mind not speaking; he can drink in the sweet, simple joy of Bittle.

 

He actively seeks him out, not telling him he worries or that he wants to protect him, that he’s incredibly proud of him. Running beside him at night, scaring up rabbits, not eating them, Bittle has asked them to leave the rabbits alone, but anything else is fair game. They work as well at hunting as they do on the ice, driving small creatures before them, sending them to Lardo and Shitty and the rest as well as they would a puck.

 

Things smooth out and Bittle eases into his new role of werewolf. Lardo and Jack talk and Lardo tells him Bittle has difficulty staying wolf for extended periods of time. A different type of mental block. She wants him to take him out over night.

 

“A camping trip! Immerse him in wolfy activities. He needs to be in control. Can’t have him turn human in the middle of a hunt. Can’t have him turn wolf in class. It scares the swim team. Stupid otters.”

 

“Me?”

 

“Of course you. Who else?” She smiles, more feral than usual.

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

Coming back to the Haus, it feels as if the air vibrates. The moon will be full later. He’s sure it will be tonight.

 

When Jack enters the Haus, Lardo sits on the couch, typing away on her laptop, feet tucked under Shitty’s thigh.

 

“Jack,” she calls.

 

“Yeah?”

 

She doesn't answer just looks up at him, her expression firm.

 

Jack's fingers tremble a bit. “Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Engrossed once more in her laptop, she ignores him as he continues to the kitchen. Bittle washes dishes, back to the door.

 

“Bittle?”

 

“Yes?”

 

‘Tonight. Be ready.”

 

“Oh. All right.” He can see him swallow, his eyes widen a bit before he turns back to the sink to finish up the dishes.

 

“Oh and Bittle?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Nothing else to eat before we go.”

 

“Okay.”

 

Jack leaves and heads upstairs. He sits on his bed and breathes deeply. He can do this.

 

They both can do this.

 

The sun sets. He hears Lardo yell from downstairs, “It’s time boys!”

 

He opens his bedroom door about the same second as Bittle. Eyes huge, he tries to smile nervously. The both head downstairs and stand in front of Lardo. The rest of the pack pretend not to be interested, play Mario Kart.

 

“Outside. Now.” She turns to go and without so much as a backward glance throws her parting shot. “Naked as the day you were born, gentlemen.”

 

Stripping down to their boxers, they fold their clothes neatly and head out through the kitchen to the small backyard.

 

He tries really hard not to look directly at Bittle, who’s shivering, not from the cold, although the night is frosty, from expectancy, perhaps a bit of nervous fear in there, too.

 

The last of the sun drops, off go the boxers and Jack throws back his head and howls. Bittle joins in.

 

The smooth ripple of flesh melting into flesh no longer hurts the way it had at first. There’s some weird awkwardness as organs rearrange themselves and it always makes him feel a little nauseous when bones stretch or shrink. He rather enjoys the tickling sensation of hair sprouting everywhere, and the whole snout thing makes him sneeze. The tail though, that’s the best part. He always has such difficulty expressing anything but with the tail he can tell the pack in so many ways what he feels just with a flick. Ears too. Who knew ears could be so emotive?

 

He looks over at Bittle. He’s changed faster than ever. He stands there small, but strong and muscular, unbelievably handsome as a wolf. That funny feeling in his stomach which human Jack thought of as an ulcer is back.

 

Wolf Jack knows it for what it really is.

 

His tail sweeps back and forth. How could he have missed this? He yips. Bittle grins and takes off running.

 

The air is winter crisp. There’s the scent of snow everywhere, the withered leaves lying on the ground are frost covered. The sound and scurry of many rodents still preparing for the season of cold makes his ears twitch. They trot off down the street, stick to their territory. Letting him be leader in this, Jack’s wolf enjoys the sensations tricking into his brain.

 

Taking them around, down by the Pond, where brush lays undisturbed except by the different packs, each taking their turn to hunt. Way behind, back beyond the pond grows a small thicket of trees. Jack can smell rabbits, and his heart speeds up. But he stays back. This is Bittle’s night.

 

Led to a clearing, Jack lopes softly after. Bittle turns and sits, and Jack trots up to him. A sniff and a few licks, he grooms his fur and tries to fix the cowlick that appears even in wolf form. Submitting for a bit, he lifts a paw and pushes Jack down. He lays half on him and returns the favour, both so relaxed as wolves it doesn't seem strange or out of place to groom each other. He then rolls off and woofs, play snaps at him and runs away a bit. He streaks back, feet flying, entices him to follow. The most elaborate game of tag ever runs in and out and through the smattering of trees. Jack could easily outrun him or catch him, but he doesn't.

 

Soon, too soon they tire, and lie down, panting. Bittle is there close beside him, gives his muzzle a swipe or two. Finally, he lays his head on his paws, closes his eyes. Jack stays alert, ever watchful, making sure it’s safe.

 

Soft snores beside him, there will definitely be chirps in the morning. Jack closes his eyes just for a minute, just to rest and they sleep. The moon overhead watches them.

 

Early bird call wakes them. His sleep is the best it's ever been. Bitty stretches, tongue curled. His ears perk, and he pants, happy. He’s managed to retain his form throughout the night. There will be no further tests. He’s fully pack.

 

Shoving a wet and cold snout into Bitty’s ear, Jack snorts. A combination yawn, howl, yip comes out of his mouth. They look for breakfast. Jack flushes a squirrel, snaps at it. It’s over fast.

 

He places it at Bitty’s feet and looks up at him. Whines a bit.

 

Bitty’s licks his jaw, cleans the blood off and accepts the offering. Jack’s tail is ever so happy.

 

At the edge of the copse, a familiar looking backpack waits. Glancing around, there’s no one in sight, not even any early joggers. The air shimmers around Jack as his body gives off excess heat, powers it into transformation. Standing upright, he stretches the human part this time and then unzips the bag and finds clothes for the two of them. Jack dresses and then cocks an eyebrow.

 

“Well?”

 

Bitty shakes himself, and then he stands there, naked, hands on hips. “Well what, Mr. Zimmermann?”

 

“Are you getting dressed?”

 

Bitty holds out a hand, and Jack tosses him sweats and a hoodie. Bitty slips them on, unconcerned about the lack of underwear. He’s apparently got over going commando.

 

Reaching into the bag, he next pulls out shoes, Bitty’s regular plain runners and his bright yellow.

 

Jack turns to go but stops after a few steps when he notices Bitty’s not coming.

 

“What?” he says.

 

Arms crossed, hip titled to the side, head on an angle, Bitty just looks.

 

“What?” Jack repeats.

 

“Are we not going to talk?”

 

“Um…no?”

 

He throws his hands up, exasperated.

 

Jack’s forehead crinkles, not sure what he’s done wrong.

 

Sitting on a nearby log, Bitty pats the seat beside him. “Come and sit.”

 

Confused, he does.

 

“Did you catch me breakfast?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you give it all to me?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well?”

 

“Uh…”

 

“Do you mean it?”

 

“I…guess?”

 

“Jack!”

 

“I’m sorry. I really don't understand.”

 

“Does the wolf part of you ever talk to the human part of you?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“Well just listen here, Jack Zimmermann. You just proposed.”

 

“Wait…what?” And he sits, thinking.

 

Sun creeps a bit higher; birdsong calms down somewhat.

 

And he thinks about everything that has happened ever since he turned Bitty.

 

Oh. Oh! “I…I didn’t now!’ he placed his hands on Bitty’s face, his beautiful, beautiful face.

 

“Bittle.”

 

“Yes, Jack?” That goddam smirk of his.

 

“Bitty,” he breathed it, soft and quiet. Breathed his name and wrapped it around his heart and finally lets it sink into his very bones.

 

And he kissed him. Bitty startles a bit, not a lot because he kind of knew where this was going. But then there are hands on faces, and gripping clothes and they sort of slide back off of the log and lay on the cold ground, and Jack can’t stop kissing him.

 

Thank God it isn't an ulcer.

 

Later they enter the Haus. Lardo is the only one up.

 

She smiles, a little feral and nods as the boys head upstairs to one of their rooms, she doesn't care which.

 

“’Bout fucking time,” she says, to no one in particular.


End file.
